Blow Fly

69

THE CAR IS PARKED AT a meter on East 114th Street in Harlem, within a block of Rao's.

In Benton's former life, he could get a coveted table at Rao's because he was FBI and had special status with the family who has owned the famous, if not notorious, Italian restaurant for a hundred years. It was a hangout for the mob, and there is no telling who dines there now. Celebrities frequent its few checked cloth-covered tables. Cops love the place. The mayor of New York stays away. Parked on East 114th, in a beat-up black Cadillac that Benton bought for $2,500 cash, is probably as close to Rao's as he will ever get again.

He plugs a cell phone into the cigarette lighter, engine and air-conditioning running, doors locked, his scan never leaving the mirrors as he eyes rough people who have nothing better to do than walk the streets, looking for trouble. The billing address of this phone is the EO. Box number of a woman in Washington who does not exist. The satellite location of where Benton's call is made is of no consequence, and within two minutes, he hears U.S. Senator Frank Lord talking to a staff member who is unaware that the senator has activated mode two of his international cell phone and will now receive calls and actually transmit his conversation without any alert that can be detected by anyone other than himself.

While the senator was testifying on live TV, he checked his watch and suddenly called for a break. Without touching the phone clipped on his belt, the caller-in this case, Benton-can hear everything the senator says.

He hears muffled footsteps and voices.

"… World's greatest obstructionist body. If that isn't the truth," says Senator Lord, who is always reserved, but as tough as they come. "Damn Stevens."

"He's raised filibuster to an art form, that's certain," another male voice sounds in Benton's earpiece.

When Benton left a text message on the Senator's cell phone with the exact time he would make this call, it was the first time Benton had made any contact with him in almost a year. Senator Lord knows Benton is listening, unless he has forgotten or didn't get the message. Doubts wrestle with Benton's confidence. He tries to envision the senator, dressed as always in a crisp conservative suit, his posture as straight as a four-star general's.

But the remote one-sided meeting must be on track. The senator walked out of a hearing that was probably being aired live on C-SPAN. He wouldn't do that without a good reason, and it would be coincidental, to say the least, if he just happened to step out at the precise time Benton let him know he would call the number in mode two.

Also, it occurs to Benton with relief, the senator obviously has set his phone on mode two. Otherwise, Benton could not overhear his conversation. Don't be stupid and so damn jumpy, he silently tells himself. You are not stupid. Senator Lord is not stupid. Think clearly.

He is reminded of how much he misses seeing his old friends and acquaintances in the flesh. Hearing the voice of Senator Lord, Scarpetta's trusted friend, a man who would do anything for her, tightens Benton's throat. He clenches his hands, gripping his phone so tightly that his knuckles blanch.

The man, probably a staff member, asks, "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Not now," Senator Lord says.

Benton notices a muscular, bare-chested youth casually moving closer to his rusting, dented Cadillac, a hunk of junk so caked with Bondo, the car looks as if it has pigment disorder. Benton stares him down, a universal warning, and the youth veers off in another direction.

"He's not going to get appointed, sir," the staff member replies, oblivious that every word he says is being broadcast to a Nokia cell phone in Harlem.

"I'm always more optimistic than you are, Jeff. Things can turn around, surprise you," says Senator Lord, the chairman of the Judiciary Committee and the most powerful politician in federal law enforcement, because he controls funding, and everything is about funding, even solving the most heinous crimes.

"I want you to leave and call Sabat." Senator Lord refers to Don Sabat, the director of the FBI. "Assure him he'll get what he needs for his new cyber-crime unit."

"Yes, sir." The staff member sounds surprised. "Well, you'll make his day."

"He's done all the right things and needs my help."

"I'm not sure I agree with you, Chairman, in the sense that we have some other pretty big issues, and this is going to set off a lot of…"

"Thank you for taking care of it," Senator Lord cuts him off. "I've got to get back in there and make these idiots think about people instead of damn political power games."

"And punishment. There are those who aren't too fond of you."

The senator laughs. "Means I'm doing something right. Give Sabat my regards, tell him things are moving along well now, are in the works. Reassure him, I know he's been unsettled. But we've really got to be diligent now, more than ever."

The line goes dead. Within hours, money will be wired into various accounts at The Bank of New York at Madison and 63rd, and Benton can begin withdrawals with bank cards issued in other fictitious names.